Poetry on Time

Poetry on Time

Hibernating over the long winter,

If only it was at rest.

Piecing together what begins to splinter,

Remembering the best.

Deep in the cave

Lost in the dark.

Trying to save

What has broken apart.

Awash like flotsam, those you cannot retrieve,

Jetsam memories, born from distress, tossed.

The truth is between what I know and believe,

Some, though valuable, still they are lost.

Mourning the past,

Lives we were unable to live.

Tide comes in fast,

Giving all the effort I can give:

Surfing a tube, riding a wave

Rapidly escaping disaster.

Moving, crouching, hoping to stay,

On the surfboard going faster and faster.

Crashing on the rocks

Hurtling to the bottom.

Reality is what shocks

And this poetry is solemn*

Where does man find solace?

A story w/ chapters we don’t want to read.

With age it happens to all of us,

There are dreams lost, we have to concede.

Trouble comes not from what we don’t know,

But instead, about which we're sure.

When we find out that it "just ain’t so,"[i]

We go looking for a cure.

How to move from resentment to gratitude?[ii]

Fighting, entangled in the rope of an anchor.

A daily journey, a choice of our attitude,

Let go of the weight, unless it will sink her.

Complaining too long,

He built up a wall.

Instead sing a song,

Give thanks for it all!

God orchestrates, guides your life.

Journey's steps, movements of grace,

Assured as we are, there will be strife,

It proceeds quickly, memories fade.

Time is currency as valuable as money,

When we’re young, we’re inestimably rich.

Water is calm, morning is sunny,

Hook something, even if fishing in a borrow-ditch.

The present is not a potential past,

It's the moment of choice and action.[iii]

What if imaginations are recast?

Living each day with passion.

Can’t sit still,

For whenever we stop.

Think what you will,

But in order to reach the top.

Climbing the tall hill,

Jumping over hands of a clock.

Each second passes like a beating heart

The pace of time ticking with the clock.

From the moment life is fated to start,

Racing forward, until it stops.

Warping, winding, twisting, grinding,

The fabric of time swirls into a black hole.

Grasping, stretching, flowing down into my mind.

Déjà vu year-after-year, only repeating what you know?

Expanding outward, like rings on a tree

Forest, tree, leaf; years, weeks, hours.

Covered in bark, growth isn’t seen,

Progress you can’t see, I don’t know yours.

Memories past, do not last

Future uncertain as the next warm sunrise.

What if you had only one day to pass?

Lived w/ purpose, experienced w/ surprise.

Priorities match the time allotted,

But that begins if you assume:

Tomorrow could be funeral-plotted,

Cold, dry, deep, where one cannot exhume.

Let us eat drink and be merry

For tomorrow we die?[iv]

Is there gain if you hurry,

Look to color, life, and beauty, w/ your eye.

Take time to listen more than speak

Any banquet, in memory, won’t compare.

A heavenly city with golden streets,[v]

Home when you get up there.

Limited by time and space

God seems abstract.

To know him, seeing his face,

Is a relationship realistic, a fact?

Living life backward,

Momentum would build.

Becoming childlike, living son-ward,

Death/birth ending, small, and stilled.

Wise to unwise,

Robust to small.

Memories counter-clockwise,

To the simplest of all.

Original love in mother’s eyes,

Life's gift begins in adoration.

Bonding one can only categorize,

As the link to another generation.

You are this moment now,

At once, there is no other.[vi]

No past, no future; no why, no how,

Having met the “unmoved-mover”[vii]

If you gave up the time to read these verses,

May I leave you with a warning:

They don’t put hitches on hearses,

You aren’t guaranteed tomorrow morning.

Don't piece together what is shattered and broken,

Sweep it up, throw it out, it’s best to let it go.

Memories are real, they can't go unspoken,

This is something everyone knows...

But knowing how time works,

Being comfortable with its flow?

Thoughts, memories, even these words,

Melt away like snow.

Days grow like grass,

Flourishing like flowers in the field.[viii]

The wind comes, blowing hard; alas,

Beauty and youth once known, must yield.

*Dedicated to Brent:

Graduated, pledged, 

grew up together,

Away we both went.

He just passed away,

So much to say today.

(But too much unsaid)

I didn’t know he would be dead.

Despite being gone,

He lived a meaningful life.

#RIP DBP[ix] 

With a tear in my eye.

Knowing my sorrow, counting my tears,

God, you kept them in a bottle.[x]

Taking refuge in you thru the years,

My home is found in your gospel.

(end)

Poetry©Mark H. Pillsbury (2019)

---

[i] Mark Twain

[ii] Henri Nouwen

[iii] Simone de Beauvoir

[iv] Apostle Paul

[v] Revelation 21:21

[vi] Ennis

[vii] Aristotle

[viii] Psalms

[ix] D. Brent Pogue

[x] Psalm 56:8

The Paris Pivot (Part V)

The Paris Pivot:

(Part V):

Until the first time he picked up a pencil, which saved him, and after failing out of secondary school, even a miraculous honorable discharge from the Armée de terre; Gabriel didn’t draw, paint, or visualize art at all. Instead, he suffered for 5 months under fumbling, misguided, veteran’s socialized medicine; mostly sleeping, in a bewildered confusion brought on by prescription drugs—numbing his senses and drowning him in a haze of disorder worse than the fog of war.

Gabriel almost didn’t make it out of the fog, but he made it to Paris.

I’ve labeled this chapter in his life the Paris Pivot, because it turned Gabriel’s life around. Concentrating on art as behavioral therapy rivaled whatever stimulant drugs (Ritalin), or psychedelic, organic tea had done for him so far. The tiniest details of his penciled drawings allowed him a portal to an awareness only achieved while meditating; but I experienced also the delicate social interplay between us focusing him intently, enlivening and stimulating him. Loosely called “flirting” in America, but very pedestrian in France, I didn’t know at the time whether a well-groomed American girl with a guitar could pull him out of his shell, but we recognized in each other an attractive detour from our pre-planned escape routes.

I represented for him a normal experience he could not have hoped to achieve while medicated. His depressive dullness kept him out of the cafés, and he was not self-confident enough to approach me at the time; even though his devilish grin and colossal frame, on the surface alone, made him radically gorgeous to me. I was falling backwards, spinning around, light-headed, over the moon, whatever you want to call it.

Out of the chaos of a mixed-up mind, he began to see eternal patterns. He drew the same self-similarity, or scaling, that is common among the seed patterns of flowers or trees. Even though Gabriel often seemed like a bumbling professor, or starving artist; his mind naturally pictured this famous ratio, with a long and honored history in mathematics, from Euclid and Aristotle to modern computer calculations. His black & white pencil drawings reflect the simple but divine “proportion” of Leonardo da Vinci, considered the most beautiful and important of mathematical standards.

Gabriel even sought the medicinal effects of mind-altering tea that has been brewed for centuries in the Amazon River basin. He found an underground tea-shop on the Left Bank, conducting ceremonial "tea-party" healing sessions where an Ayahuasca "potion" was served for many searching, tortured souls. Made from a blend of two plants, containing the hallucinogen "DMT" --  the psychoactive compound of organic elements provided a powerful, transformative, upending, "high," good for the ameliorating affects on numerous psychological conditions. Unfortunately, his brain activity changed little under the influence of ayahuasca, and the tea ceremony was anticlimactic. Gabriel's treatment-resistant depression was best fought by pursuing art.

He studied the nature of these forms and their relationship to each other (ratio), giving Gabriel a greater insight into the scientific, philosophical, psychological, aesthetic, and mystical laws of the universe. Natural inquisitiveness instructed him more than formal schooling; in fact, these symmetrical images opened his life onto a new path, resurrecting his future. During hours of meticulous sketching, grappling with all he had lost, fighting against the misunderstanding that dominated his existence before now; Gabriel used science to cure himself of dysfunctional mystery, reinventing and reinvigorating his soul. Detailed drawing was a small, simple way for him to express truth, and as deep as were his wounds, so deep too was the healing.

Failing to bring up the utility of studying law, nor my dusty, unstable ambitions of helping incubate struggling African democracies, we rarely discussed the chances that Gabriel could make a living painting, any more than to contemplate the average signing bonus for a beginning US “junior-lawyer”. His confidence, now rooted in his journey in the arts, also buoyed an exceptional faith in the rightness of his journey. Realistically, because I did not completely sell-out to my artistic abilities, instead falling back on my training as a lawyer; I was playing it safe while in Paris. But Gabriel didn’t have any other options, and I’ll admit to you here, that the question of whether his talent could carry him into his future, produced an unspoken tension between us. ##

Fiction 2018©Mark H. Pillsbury

Paris Stories: Unlearn What You've Learned (Part IV)

Unlearn What You've Learned (Part IV):

(Paris) Along with differences in age, language, size, and demeanor; between us walked our constant companion, his art. Training alongside the verbal, linear logic of legal precedence, my companion spun mathematical formulas out of his mind into symmetrical circles of exacting care, drawn softly with pencil and later illuminated with black & white acrylic paint.

As the practical, grounded, first-born daughter of an accountant and a classroom English teacher, my style epitomized the ascending power of the American Female Lawyer. It is true that women still struggle in the workplace for equality, but my experience was like a clear, fortunate passage into a profitable career.  At the same time, Gabriel showed me how an unorganized giant, uncomfortable in his own skin, could give his art the hyper-focus it demanded; producing large scale paintings that drew your eye into a tunnel of precision, a mystical maze of fastidious circles.

His art bloomed out of more than a mere triquetra (trinity knot), it subtly revealed the sacred artistic geometry of life; exact, mathematical, but more than just slide rules and protractors. Exhibiting the formulas of Fibonacci and the ancient truths of a sunflower’s pattern of seeds, the paintings communicated the consistent, repeatable thread of life going back to the beginning—the historic symmetry of the human struggle.

[artist and author]

Drawing by hand, sequences appearing to have come from a CAD drawing and a laser printer, Gabriel believed the complete, ancient flower of life formed an inter-dimensional tool, like a portal. Meditation showed him a mental window into what some call the inter-space plane. Not only therapeutic, his mind now had a factory in which to process traumatic stress that had once destroyed and dismantled his natural genius. He patiently waited, unbridled the yoke of mental illness, practicing his art with hope, and what Cameron calls our true nature:

"No matter what your age or your life path, whether making art is your career or your hobby or your dream, it is not too late or too egotistical or too selfish or too silly to work on your creativity. . . . I have come to believe that creativity is our true nature, that blocks are an unnatural thwarting of a process at once as normal and as miraculous as the blossoming of a flower at the end of a slender green stem." (end quote) by Julia Cameron 

Gabriel created two series of curves winding in opposite directions, drawing with a fine mechanical pencil. Beginning at the center, they stretched out to the widest part of his canvas like petals. With each seed-shaped unit sitting at a certain angle from the neighboring seeds, he demonstrated the precision of a spiral, which exists everywhere in the physical universe. The angle found in the “flower-of-life” is the universal “juste-milieu”; yet, it is the most irrational number imaginable for such a drawing, a feeble approximation of a fraction. This number is sometimes called the golden mean, or the golden angle, which is 137.5⁰.

Aristotle thought the angle was the middle point between extremes, e.g., if courage is a virtue, its excess could manifest in one extreme as recklessness, and in deficiency, cowardice. The Greeks thought the golden mean was artistically beautiful but at the same time closely associated with mathematics, being both beautiful and true. Because the best known group of American artists are usually said to be the abstract expressionists of the “New York” style, my artistic palate wasn’t typically exposed to this degree of exactness, but I guess the lawyer in me liked it? Gabriel helped me realize that the artist often must "unlearn" what she has learned, in order to know her path. ##

Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Up and Down the Radio Dial

My car’s SiriusXM® satellite radio musically illuminates my long commute to work and back home. 

Every day I’m amazed at its wide variety of music stations; I'm carried like a time-machine to realistic memories which make up the tapestry of my life through the decades. The main lanes are: #70sOn7, #80sOn8, #90sOn9, #OutlawCountry, and #DeepTracks.

Magical alchemy takes place mostly in my sub-conscious; but today it was so startling that I had to write about it. The particular song, and the back-story in memory are too long to tell; but even in the age of the iPod® digital device, a simple car radio still provides emotional feedback on timeless wavelengths, bearing a gift beyond price, almost free:

“All this machinery making modern music can still be open-hearted;
Not so coldly charted. It’s really just a question of your honesty?”    Lyrics by Lee ©UMPG

I’m allowed the privilege of  sliding up and down the radio dial; virtually placing the needle down on an imaginary spinning vinyl record of a prior age. In the first few seconds of listening, even hearing a few bars or words of the song; narrative prescience of memory recalls exactly where, when, and with whom I associate this tune.

Songwriters have very little time to move toward their chosen endings, structuring parts of the music to match the lyrics. In reality, this confinement means that every song is over before it begins. Wouldn't it be nice if our life stories had the kind of “up” ending that writers hope to bring to their songs? Often the story just doesn't allow the kind of ending we’d secretly hope for.

It is Aristotelian to describe a story (or a life) like this: “A beginning requires nothing to precede it, and an end is what requires nothing to follow it; however the middle requires something both before and after it.”

One of our strongest human desires is that Aristotle’s equation is not true; we want our “middle” to count for something and we know the significance of what came before us and what succeeds. Our lives play like the radio dial I mentioned before: our beginning comes from the histories, biases, character, education and family circumstances.

The big middle, the life we lead, is made of years of lined-up in particular points, like grooves on a record. Set us down in any one of those grooves and the rest of the story plays like music. No specific song is better or worse than any other one; in fact, maybe these musical notes compose all the riffs of one song: our life.

What follows the end? That’s another topic for another post.

“Sing me back home with a song I used to hear,
Make my old memories come alive.
Take me away and turn back the years,
Sing Me Back Home before I die.”
©Merle Haggard

©Mark H. Pillsbury (2015)